Transfiguration
The morning light poured through the high arched windows of the Transfiguration classroom, catching dust motes in the air and the gleam of polished brass instruments.
The students sat in neat rows, each with a restless beetle waiting nervously on its desk.
Professor McGonagall's sharp gaze swept the room.
"Today marks your final practical on beetle to button transformations. I expect precision, control, and above all—consistency."
Wands lifted. Quills stilled. Even the beetles seemed to sense what was coming.
Shya twirled her wand between her fingers with an almost casual ease, then smirked at Talora. "You ready to witness art?" Talora arched a brow. "Just don't traumatize the poor beetle this time."
Across the room, Cassian's wand moved with quiet precision, Roman already muttering about how his bug kept twitching.
Mandy's was halfway between beetle and brass blob. Lisa's was fully button but still… wriggling.
"Now," McGonagall announced. "Begin."
A soft murmur of transfiguro filled the air. Sparks flickered, faint glimmers of light catching wings, carapaces, and brass.
Shya's wand cut through the air with confidence. A shimmer of blue-gold light danced along the beetle's shell—and then, with a satisfying click, a perfect silver button appeared on her desk, embossed with an intricate raven emblem.
McGonagall paused mid-stride. Her eyebrow rose. "Excellent work, Miss Gill."
"Thank you, Professor." Shya's tone was effortlessly composed, but the corner of her mouth curved in quiet satisfaction. Next to her, Talora's beetle became a polished pewter button—neat, symmetrical, but just slightly plain.
She sighed. "Functional. Not fashionable."
Shya tapped her wand again, the button now shimmering black with a line of tiny sapphires circling the rim. "Now it's couture."
Cassian's beetle transformed a second later—a dark green button with a faint silver sheen, edges clean and sharp. He caught Shya's eye and smirked slightly, a silent exchange of mutual recognition. Roman, meanwhile, had managed something that looked more like a melted coin.
He frowned. "It's… modern art."
Shya leaned over. "It's tragic."
Professor McGonagall's voice sliced cleanly through the laughter. "Five points to Ravenclaw for exemplary precision, Miss Gill. And another five for ingenuity, Mr. Black. However—" she turned, her eyes narrowing, "—you will all produce two feet of parchment on wand technique and intent for next class. Transfiguration requires discipline, not flair."
Collective groans followed. As the bell rang, the students gathered their parchment and newly minted buttons. Shya pocketed hers with a grin. "Two feet of parchment, sure. I'll make it rhyme."
"Of course you will," Cassian murmured dryly, following her out. "Don't act like you're not impressed."
"I'm not acting."Roman rolled his eyes. "You two are exhausting."
"Compliment accepted," Shya shot back, the laughter following them all the way into the corridor.
Charms
The Charms classroom was filled with sunlight and the faint scent of lemon polish. Professor Flitwick stood atop his books, practically glowing with excitement. "Today, we revisit an old favorite: Rictusempra! The Tickling Charm! One of the most delightful—and distracting—spells you'll ever learn."
"Sounds like detention waiting to happen," Shya whispered to Talora, earning a grin.
Pairs formed quickly. Shya, wand poised, smirked at Cassian across the table. "You ready?"
He eyed her warily. "You always ask that before chaos."
She flicked her wrist. "Rictusempra!"
The spell struck, and Cassian barely had time to exhale before laughter burst out of him — quiet at first, then helpless.
Roman snorted. "Graceful, mate."
Cassian caught his breath and countered smoothly. "Your turn."
Shya squealed, laughter echoing as she collapsed against her chair. "Unfair! I wasn't even ready—!"
"Focus, everyone!" Flitwick called, though his eyes were twinkling. "Excellent form, Mr. Black, and—oh dear, Miss Gill, please try not to hex your own desk."
At the next table, Lisa's charm hit Mandy squarely in the shoulder. The girl howled with laughter, clutching her sides. "You're—going—to—pay—"
"Control!" Flitwick reminded them, still smiling. "You'll all need to demonstrate this spell properly next week—no duels, please!"
When the chaos finally subsided, Flitwick dismissed them with a proud clap of his hands. "Excellent work, everyone! Do remember to practice responsibly!"
As they walked out, still laughing, Talora shook her head. "We've somehow managed to weaponize giggling. That's impressive."
"Yeah," Shya said, catching her breath. "If McGonagall assigns another essay, I might just use this charm on myself."
Cassian's mouth curved slightly. "At least you'd be laughing."
"Not for long," Shya shot back, but her grin was unmistakable.
Perfect — let's keep the tone consistent: fast-paced, cinematic, and warm with that crisp Hogwarts humor and sensory detail. Here's your next scene:
Herbology
The greenhouses glowed under the pale October sun, dew catching on the glass like glittering threads. Inside, the air was thick with damp soil, the tang of dragon dung compost, and the low buzz of life — fluttering vines, rustling leaves, and the occasional groan from a sentient root.
Professor Sprout clapped her hands, her smile earthy and unbothered by the chaos that always followed her.
"Alright, second-years! Today we'll be checking on our baby Mandrakes — remember, they're nearly halfway to adolescence, so handle them gently. We don't want anyone fainting before lunch!"
The class shuffled toward their tables. Talora's eyes lit up instantly; she was in her element here, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, hair tied back with a twine ribbon.
"Look at them!" she breathed, leaning over a tray of small green shoots. "They've grown so much."
"Still horrifying," Shya muttered, tugging on her earmuffs. "Screaming potatoes. Wonderful."
Across the benches, Cassian was quietly re-packing the soil around his Mandrake with surgical precision, while Roman prodded his plant experimentally.
"Do you think it bites?" Roman asked.
"Only if it inherits your personality," Cassian said without looking up.
Talora worked deftly beside her, coaxing her Mandrake from its pot just far enough to inspect the roots. The small creature kicked its legs irritably but didn't scream — a small miracle. She lowered it back down with a proud smile.
"See? They're sensitive, not evil."
Shya's Mandrake, however, had other ideas. The moment she tugged at its leaves, it let out a piercing wail that rattled the glass panes. She winced, shoving it back into the soil. "Sensitive my foot. It's possessed."
Lisa stifled a laugh. "Professor Sprout said gently!"
Shya snorted. "That was gentle for him."
Sprout bustled over, cheerfully oblivious to Shya's horror. "Excellent vigor, Miss Gill! A healthy cry means a healthy plant!"
Shya just blinked. "Right. I'll start a Mandrake choir."
By the time the class moved on to the Bowtruckles, the room was a whirl of laughter and snapping twigs. The tiny, stick-thin creatures darted along the branches of the trees, guarding their wood with stubborn ferocity.
"Remember," Sprout said, "Bowtruckles can be soothed with woodlice. Try to earn their trust before taking a sample!"
Roman dropped a woodlouse onto his palm; a Bowtruckle promptly snatched it and scrambled up his sleeve, glaring at anyone who looked too closely.
"Congratulations," Shya said dryly. "You've been adopted."
"Finally," Roman replied. "Someone appreciates me."
Talora was already charming a pair of Bowtruckles onto her branch, whispering to them softly as though they were children.
Shya, meanwhile, was cautiously holding one at arm's length. "If it bites me, I'm hexing it."
"It's just curious!" Talora laughed.
"It's hostile curiosity."
Professor Sprout clapped her hands again. "Wonderful work, everyone! Your assignment: detailed sketches and descriptions of your Mandrake and Bowtruckle interactions due next class. And please remember, no keeping them as pets!"
As the bell rang, the class filtered out into the crisp autumn air. Talora lingered a moment, brushing soil from her hands and smiling faintly.
"You have to admit," she said, "there's something beautiful about them. Even when they're a little terrifying."
Shya tilted her head, watching the greenhouse shimmer behind them. "Yeah," she said, half-smiling. "Terrifyingly beautiful. Sounds about right for Hogwarts."
Potions
The dungeon was cool and heavy with the scent of damp stone, dragon liver, and something metallic simmering at the back of the room. Blue fire flickered beneath cauldrons, throwing ghostly shadows across the walls as Professor Snape swept past the rows of students like a storm cloud in motion.
"Today," he said, his voice smooth but carrying, "you will attempt the Strengthening Solution. A properly brewed potion should heighten stamina and reflexes temporarily. A poorly brewed one…" His eyes lingered meaningfully on Seamus Finnigan & Neville Longbottom, "…will instead glue your limbs together in a most inconvenient way."
The class shifted uneasily.
Shya glanced at her parchment, then at the array of ingredients in front of her. Cassian, beside her, had already begun arranging his setup with methodical precision — everything in perfect symmetry.
"You're doing that thing again," Shya muttered.
"What thing?" Cassian didn't look up.
"The thing where you make everyone else look like an amateur chef."
He smirked faintly. "That's because most of them are."
Across the room, Talora and Roman worked in synchronized silence, steam curling gracefully from their cauldron. Talora measured her salamander blood drop by drop, her expression focused, serene. Shya's cauldron hissed ominously as hers turned an almost-too-bright shade of orange.
"Merlin's left toenail," she muttered. "It's supposed to be gold, right?"
Cassian peered over. "Amber. You're close — stir counter-clockwise twice, then add a sprig of gillyweed to neutralize the excess heat."
She followed the instruction. The potion mellowed instantly into a warm, golden shimmer.
Shya grinned. "And they say Slytherins don't share."
"I'm preserving my eyebrows," he said dryly.
At the next table, Roman's cauldron emitted a low, musical hum — the correct result, according to Talora's notes.
She smiled. "Perfect."
Roman leaned back with mock pride. "Obviously. I'm a man of many talents."
"Your potion just sang," Mandy said, blinking. "How does that even happen?"
"Artistry," Roman replied, deadpan.
A sudden bang! drew everyone's attention to the Gryffindor side. Seamus & Neville had once again managed to blow a hole in his cauldron. Snape's expression did not change. "Detention. With Filch. And three feet on safe brewing practices."
He drifted back toward the Slytherin-Ravenclaw tables, his gaze sweeping over Cassian and Shya's cauldron.
"Adequate," he murmured, though the faintest flicker of something like approval passed in his eyes. He lingered at Talora and Roman's table a moment longer. "Miss Livanthos, Mr. Nott — exemplary consistency."
As he moved on, Shya mouthed across the aisle: Teacher's pet.
Talora just grinned, mouthing back: Jealous.
By the time class ended, the room was thick with the smell of iron and herbs. They bottled their potions carefully, labeling them in identical silver ink.
Roman stretched, his chair scraping the flagstones. "So, verdict: successful."
Cassian nodded. "Minimal casualties."
Shya smirked. "Except Seamus's dignity."
"Lost cause," Talora added lightly, wiping her hands on a cloth.
As they filed out of the dungeon into the dim torchlight of the corridor, laughter echoed softly between them — the sound of students who were, against all odds, getting very good at surviving Hogwarts.
The library smelled like ink and parchment and quiet ambition. Sunlight slanted through tall windows, striping the long tables with pale gold. Quills scratched softly, pages turned, and somewhere in the distance, Madam Pince's shoes clicked a warning rhythm against the stone floor.
The Seven had claimed a corner table under a dusty chandelier — their unofficial research spot. Books were stacked high like fortifications: spell manuals, herbology atlases, dueling histories, and a few titles that definitely weren't on the syllabus.
Shya was sketching magical sigils in the margin of her Charms notes, her quill spinning lazily between her fingers. Talora leaned over a heavy tome on healing potions, brow furrowed in concentration. Cassian and Roman sat opposite them, quietly competitive over who could find the rarest footnote. Lisa, Mandy, and Padma were swapping chocolate frogs under the table, pretending to study.
"Remind me again why we're researching for fun," Roman muttered, flipping a page.
"Because it makes us terrifying," Shya replied sweetly, eyes still on her notes.
Cassian smirked. "Knowledge is power."
"Exactly," she said. "And gossip is its chaotic cousin."
She didn't have to wait long. The sound of approaching voices — bright, bickering — announced the arrival of the Gryffindor trio.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione appeared at the far end of the aisle, carrying stacks of books that looked more like weapons. They were arguing in hushed tones about Sir Nicholas's upcoming Deathday Party.
Ron, spotting Talora first, froze mid-sentence. His ears went scarlet. He opened his mouth — then immediately closed it again when she smiled politely and returned to her reading.
Harry's gaze flicked to Shya. She felt it instantly but didn't look up; her smirk widened just slightly. Curiosity, she thought, the most dangerous form of attention.
Hermione, meanwhile, was halfway through a heated whisper about spectral etiquette when she caught sight of the Ravenclaw-Slytherin corner — particularly Shya's small mountain of advanced transfiguration texts.
"Oh," she said, approaching with that mix of politeness and pride that always preceded a duel. "Doing extra work, are we? How… industrious."
Shya didn't even glance up. "Unlike some people, I'm not researching how to attend a party for the dead."
Talora winced. Lisa coughed back a laugh.
Hermione bristled. "It's not a party, it's a cultural event. And it's certainly more respectable than sneaking into barely sanctioned rituals like—"
"Like last year's troll incident?" Shya interrupted, finally meeting her gaze. Her tone was calm — too calm. "Or maybe that whole business with almost getting eaten by a Cerberus? I forget which brush with death we're applauding these days."
A flicker of color rose to Hermione's cheeks. "Those were different. We were helping—"
"Of course," Shya said, leaning back. "Every year's a heroic catastrophe. You should start a club."
Cassian's quill stilled. Roman bit back a grin. Padma whispered, "Merlin's beard," under her breath.
Hermione's chin lifted sharply. "At least we do something. You can't just sit here and—"
"—not cause an international incident?" Shya tilted her head. "I'll survive the shame."
Harry stepped forward then, voice quieter but steady. "We didn't mean to cause trouble last year."
For a moment, the sharpness in Shya's expression softened, but only slightly. "I know, Potter. Trouble just likes you."
Ron snorted despite himself. Hermione shot him a glare that could have cracked glass.
Before things could escalate further, Madam Pince appeared like a summoned specter, hissing, "Silence!" in a way that froze everyone mid-retort.
Shya raised her hands in mock surrender. "See? Even the library sides with me."
Hermione gathered her books with a tight smile. "Enjoy your... studies."
As the trio retreated, Lisa exhaled. "That was brutal."
"Necessary," Shya said lightly, turning another page. "Balance must be maintained."
Talora shot her a sideways look. "One day, she's going to hex you."
"Let her try." Shya's smirk softened. "I look good in green light."
Laughter bubbled around the table, the tension melting back into their usual rhythm — clever banter, gentle teasing, the quiet, unspoken knowledge that they were growing sharper with every month that passed.
Outside, the autumn wind rattled the windows, scattering the last of October into the long, golden dusk of the coming All Hallows Eve.
That night, the Great Hall glowed under a thousand floating pumpkins. Candles hovered in lazy spirals, dripping golden wax into the air that never quite reached the tables. Shya and Talora sat with the others at the Ravenclaw table, surrounded by chatter, plates of roast pumpkin, and flickering light.
"Does anyone else feel like we just blinked and suddenly it's Halloween tomorrow?" Mandy said, spooning treacle tart onto her plate.
Lisa groaned. "Yes, and I still haven't finished my Potions essay. Snape's going to murder me."
"Please," Shya said, her fork poised mid-air. "He only murders spirits. You'll just lose a few house points and your dignity."
Talora grinned, but her laugh was distracted — a half-beat too soft. She'd barely touched her plate, eyes flicking toward the far windows where the night pressed close, black and endless.
Cassian noticed. "You alright?" he asked quietly.
She blinked, forcing a smile. "Fine. Just tired."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "You've been 'just tired' for a week."
"I'm fine," she repeated, too quickly.
The conversation shifted again — Lisa was debating the best way to charm a jack-o'-lantern so it wouldn't melt indoors — but Talora's thoughts drifted. The warmth of the hall seemed dimmer tonight. Even the laughter felt far away.
Later, the Ravenclaw dorms were hushed. The only sounds were the occasional crackle of the enchanted fireplace and the soft rustle of parchment. Shya was already curled up in her bed, sketching absently in the glow of a floating candle.
"Talora?" she asked without looking up. "You're staring at the ceiling again."
Talora smiled faintly. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
She didn't answer.
When the candlelight dimmed, sleep came — slow and heavy.
The dream began in silence.
The forest again, but colder this time. The air shimmered with faint light — motes of gold drifting like embers — and for a heartbeat, it was beautiful. Then the embers began to burn. Leaves curled and blackened, trees withered where they stood, their bark splitting with hollow cracks.
The ground trembled beneath her feet, pulsing like something alive.
She looked down. Where her hands should have been, light blazed — not soft this time, but searing. It spilled from her fingertips in blinding ribbons, arcing through the air like molten glass. And where it touched, things died. Flowers turned to ash mid-bloom, roots disintegrated in the soil.
The forest screamed — not with sound, but with memory.
A voice whispered from the darkness, neither cruel nor kind, only inevitable:
You are not its savior, child of light. You are its consequence.
Talora stumbled back, her breath catching — and then everything froze. The gold turned white. The silence fractured like glass—
She woke, gasping.
The dorm was dark, save for the blue flicker of the enchanted lantern. Shya stirred but didn't wake. Talora pressed a hand to her chest, her heartbeat wild and uneven. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the canopy above her bed, trying to remember what she'd seen.
But the images slipped away — like sand through her fingers.
By morning, she could recall only fragments: a forest, a voice, a sense of something vast and merciless watching from behind her own reflection.
When Shya yawned awake and muttered, "You look like you've seen a ghost," Talora just smiled weakly.
"Just a bad dream."
And as they left for breakfast, sunlight spilling into the tower, the dream dissolved entirely — leaving only that faint, unshakable sense of dread.